Afterlife Inc
by Mickis
Summary: A silly fic consisting of only two chapters. Basically, it’s a humorous take on the afterlife, with a twist to suit our favorite bunch of mutant turtles. Oh, and BTW, this story suffers from a bad case of madness.
1. Opening Chapter

**Disclaimer:** Do I really have to do this? (sighs heavily) Fine. I don't own the Ninja Turtles – and it sucks! (stomps off in fury) 

**A/N:** _Sorry for being absent for some time now. But it was my birthday, and also – I was sick. Or, actually, I sorta still am. Yeah, in case you haven't noticed already, I'm sick a lot. Anyway, my point is: don't worry, I haven't forgotten about your fics. I just haven't read them yet. God, I feel like I'm always apologizing for being so late. BAD Mickis, you're a horrible reader! So anyway, I was having dinner with my family, (dramatic change of subject) and we ended up talking about the afterlife. I walked down the path of humorous thinking and a plot bunny decided to make his entrance. It wasn't meant to be this long, though. Seriously, this was just meant to be a short, short one-shot. It's just.. I had so much fun writing it, the words wouldn't stop coming – even when I asked them to. It's written solely for the purpose to entertain you – nothing else. I don't think this has anything to do with the _real _afterlife. At least I hope not. I promise I'll post the final chapter as soon as I'm done working on it. Anyway, leave a review if you want. I won't force you. Of course, I'd be delighted if you did. But the decision is entirely up to you._ _Thanks._

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**AFTERLIFE INC.**

by

Mickis

**Genre:** Humor/General

**Language:** English

**Rating:** T

**Summary:** _A silly fic consisting of only two chapters. Basically, it's a humorous take on the afterlife, with a twist to suit our favorite bunch of mutant turtles. Oh, and BTW, this story suffers from a bad case of madness._

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**Opening Chapter**

-

Staring at the tall building in front of me, I had to bend my head backwards in order to see the top of the damn thing. And even _then_, with my neck half doubled over my back, I couldn't see the end of it. It literally reached _through_ the clouds of the sky, as though it went hundreds of stories past heaven, or whatever this place was. One thing straight, though: it was bright as hell. The endless surface of windows reflected the piercing light as if the glass were made out of the sun itself. It was one hell of a skyscraper. Nothing like the buildings they have back in Scotland.

By now, I'd managed to come to the genius conclusion that I wasn't home anymore. It's always been a talent of mine to put together obvious clues when they're dropped in front of me.

I couldn't admire the view for very long, though. 'Cause the next thing I know, I was rudely pushed by some old, cranky woman coming from behind me, almost knocking me over as she crashed into my shoulder.

A quick "move your legs, idiot!" slipped out of her mouth as she hurried off towards the giant entrance of the building. It was one of those humongous rotating doors, as if they had to fit en entire elephant through the damn thing. Whatever this place was, they sure weren't holding back on the cash.

I did what came naturally and walked up to the doors. Once on the other side of the glass constructed merry-go-round, I found myself in a lobby of some sorts, a _huge_ lobby. The ceiling easily looked like it was four stories high, and there had to be over a hundred people inside, and yet it wasn't remotely close to being crowded. There was plenty of room for plants and comfy benches, which were all taken, by the way. But it's not like I felt like sitting, anyway. Having just died a few moments ago, I wasn't really up for relaxing, you know? So instead, I got in line by one of the receptions. But even though I picked the shortest line, there were still at least ten people ahead of me. So while standing there and getting ticked off for having to wait so god damned long, I took the time to admire the decoration.

The white painted walls were dressed with tons of giant posters - in multiple languages, nonetheless. My eyes managed to catch one in English that read: _'We live to serve you, when you don't.'_

Peachy. Cracking jokes at the expense of the newly deceased. Talk about rubbing it in your face, eh? 'Oh, I'm sorry. Are you dead? Well, that's too bad for you, lad - cause I'm not!' Oh, ha ha. Why not just point and laugh while they're at it?

Worse thing is, the poster had a picture of this perky lady handing some kind of paper to a walking skeleton. Now that's just going too far. Sure, I'll be the first to admit that I'm dead. At least I _think_ I am. It's the only way to explain all this crap. But it's not like I'm a walking corpse or anything. I look just like I did when I woke up this morning, right before I had my coffee and collapsed in the hallway on my way to work. I didn't even get as far as putting my shoes on. I bent over to reach for them on the floor and then BAM – heart attack.

I guess it only makes sense when you think about it. Life usually strikes when you least expect it, so why not death too, then?

Rita, my wife, she wasn't of much help when screaming hysterically as I lay there with chest cramps on the verge of death. Can't really blame her, though. Had it been her kicking the bucket this morning, I probably would've behaved the same way. Panic has a way of doing that to you. But I guess that's all in the past now. And whatever my future holds, this shopping mall-ish place has to have the answers.

Finally, after waiting for what felt like twenty minutes, it was my turn. And what do you know? The receptionist was a perky young, blonde lady. Typical.

"Welcome to Afterlife Incorporation. How may I help you?" she asked in a spotless American accent, one that made me cringe in my skin.

God, I hate Americans. Not that I've ever been there. But I still hate them. And you didn't have to be related to Albert Einstein to know that she was trained to say that to all her costumers. Just like she had to use that giant teeth smile of hers. She looked like she was an employee on the Home-shopping Channel, for Christ's sake! I felt like turning my back on her and going back the way I came. I couldn't stand her, the name of this place alone made me want to buy a last minute ticket to hell. I swear, had there been a guy outside by the entrance, selling black one-way tickets to hell, I would have bought one off of him. But, suppressing most of these thoughts, I turned to look at her with a sarcastic smirk decorating my features.

"You might not happen to know anything about me magically turning up on your doorstep, now would ye?" She dropped her smile for a moment, obviously bothered by my sarcastic attitude. Good, that's what I was going for. "Oh, and I might be going on a limb here, but I think I might be dead."

"Uh-huh," she nodded, not the least bit surprised. Instead, she casually turned to her computer to her right, her right hand cupping the mouse. "Your name, sir?"

"Roy Hart."

She looked up at me, her fingers hovering just above the keyboard. "I'm gonna need your full name, sir."

My _full_ name? Why not just ask for my social security number, like a normal receptionist? "Roy _Frederick _Hart."

She began typing, her perky blue eyes locked on the screen. Seconds later, she reached for the mouse and scrolled down whatever page she was looking at. "Right," she said. "Roy F Hart. Male, Scotland. Heart attack at the age of 54, is that correct?" She turned to me with a polite smile, almost as if she was proud that she'd managed to look me up on her expensive little computer.

"Yeah," I nodded, a bit stunned by what had just happened. "You got all that by just my _name_?"

"Yes, it's all right here on the computer," she confirmed with a trained smile.

"Yeah, but I mean…" I tried to find the proper words, but my confusion was making it very hard to do so. "There's.. there's gotta be hundreds of guys with my name. How'd you…?"

"Yes," she nodded understandingly. "Well, you're the only one for today." She turned back to her computer and frenetically started typing again. "Our next Roy F Hart isn't due till… August next year," she finally revealed.

"You can _see_ that?"

"Yes," she nodded happily. "It's all right here."

Taking a moment to digest what I'd just learned, I stared at her with my mouth open, watching little, pink penguins playing pinball with the reality, as I knew it.

"Sir?" she asked, searching for my dazed off eyes. "Are you alright, sir?"

Turning back to her, I nodded mutely, having no clue what to answer at the moment.

"Well, anyway," she said, sliding a white sheet of paper across the desk. "If you just sign your name _here_ - at the bottom - then I can--"

"What? Where?" I asked, staring at what looked like some sort of contract.

"Right here, sir," she clarified, handing me an ink pen that was strictly chained to her desk. Paranoid receptionist. Like I would actually _steal_ her stupid pencil? Please, I've just learned that I'm dead, and that destiny's pretty much booked the time of death for the entire human race on her computer. I've got better things to worry about.

Accepting the pen, I glanced at her in suspicion. "Why? What's this for?"

"It's just a guarantee that you are you, sir. Basically a legal document to prove that you're dead."

Nodding in a foggy state of understanding, I grabbed the pen tighter and scribbled down my signature on the ridiculously familiar dotted line. It seemed no matter what you signed: your car receipt, withdrawing money from your bank account, or as in my case, signing your own death certificate, that thin, dotted line never changed.

"So I'm really dead, then, am I?" I asked, handing the chained pencil back to her.

"I'm afraid so, sir," she replied, accepting the pen and claiming the document. "Here's your death identification." She handed me what looked like your ordinary business card. Looking closer, the card had my name on it, my date of birth, my nationality and some other weird looking numbers I couldn't quite figure out.

_873BH XX449 PQR31_

Yeah, why don't _you_ try cracking that one. It's not exactly a kiddie-riddle on the back of some cereal box

"Now," she continued, "just take the elevator to the 74th floor, and the receptionist there should be able to help you further."

"What elevator?" I asked, searching the lobby for anything of that description.

"It's right down there to your left, sir," she explained, pointing to the left side of the lobby, where dozens of elevators were placed - an entire wall of spotless, shiny steel doors. "There are brochures over there by the entrance, if you have any questions. Everything you need to know should be in there."

Nodding slowly, I turned my back on her and set off to the shiny rack of pocket-sized folders. Indeed, they were placed by the entrance. I must've walked right past them in my shocked state of being recently deceased. They were all placed in nice little pockets on this circle shaped brochure-case on wheels. I turned the thing around in search of the ever so familiar British flag, but settled for America when quickly getting tired of looking. I snatched a brochure and gazed upon the yellow front cover, reading:

_'Afterlife Incorporation – your guide in death.'_

Sounded awfully morbid for a bright place like this. Had it not been for that fact that I had just died, I'd think this was some sort of fancy office building. The word 'death' sure didn't come to mind as you stepped through those spinning glass doors. There _was_ a picture of a perky, pink angel on the cover, though. So I guess that made up for their swift lack of obnoxiousness.

Absentmindedly looking through the folder, I walked up to one of the elevators. Just as I was about to push the 'up' button, a blonde, young lad beat me to it. He offered a swift smile in apology and quickly turned back to staring at the oncoming elevator. Soon, a soft ding interrupted our short companionship and the shiny metal doors neatly slid apart. The boy motioned for me to step inside first, so I did, reluctantly. As soon as the both of us were standing with our backs to the wall, he turned to me with a creepy smile.

"Vilken våning ska du till?"

Great. I'm locked inside an elevator with a friendly foreigner half my age. Just my luck.

"Just FYI, I have _no_ idea what you just said."

"Oh, you speak English?" he said, his surprisingly bad accent making my ears want to retire immediately.

"Yeah," I replied shortly, so he wouldn't mistaken my answer for me wanting to continue our conversation.

"My name is Karl," he said, offering a steady hand. "I'm from Sweden."

I should've known. Had to be a Swede with an accent _that _bad.

"Roy," I told him, swiftly shaking his hand to get it over with.

"So," he said. "What floor, Roy?"

Ugh. Great, now he thinks we're on a first name basis. I should've introduced myself as Mr. Hart. Sure, I've never done so during my 54 years of living, but just because I'm dead, that shouldn't mean I should stop trying out new things. Oh well, I guess it's too late for that now.

"74th," I replied, putting my ID card and the brochure in one of the back pockets of my jeans. Good thing I had time to put on a pair of pants this morning. I would hate to have to spend eternity in my shabby morning robe, especially since it's been a while since I last washed it.

"That far?" he asked, pressing one of the buttons. "I'm going to 32, myself."

"Hmpf," I mumbled, executing my plan of using as few words as possible.

Finally, he turned away from me to stare at the red number above the door, rising along with the floors we passed. I thought I had managed to dodge the bullet just as he opened his merry mouth to speak again.

"Impressive place, isn't it?"

I nodded quietly in forced agreement.

"The architecture looks like nothing I have ever seen before. A skyscraper of this size is really something to be admired."

Great. He wants to chat about architecture. Someone just shoot me. Shoot me now. I wouldn't mind dying twice in one day. Honestly, you'd be doing me a favour.

"I mean, the buildings in New York City are amazing, I can admit that," he continued, not the slightest bit aware of how bothered I was by the mere sound of his voice. "But… Have you ever been to New York?" he then asked me, turning around to look at me.

"No," I shortly replied, firmly sticking to my plan.

"That's a shame," he said, turning back to stare at the floor number. "It's like no other city. But _this_…" he motioned to the claustrophobish walls around us, "this building is truly fantastic. A real work of art."

Finally, when I had begun to seriously consider repeatedly slamming my head into the wall beside me, the elevator stopped and dinged. The doors softly slid open, introducing what looked like yet another lobby.

"Oh, what do you know?" he asked with a smile. "This is my floor."

I swear I heard the ecstatic voice of my inner child crying out 'yes!' in my head.

Once again he offered me his hand, which I reluctantly took. "It was nice to meet you, Roy," he said, shaking my hand frenetically. Creepy Swede.

"Sure," I mumbled, pulling my hand out of his clingy grip. Then, he quickly turned around and left the elevator. Had I been able to do a back flip, I would have.

I pressed the button for floor 74 and witnessed the doors closing together in front of me. Then, I enjoyed the silence of standing in my own company – without Karl. So far, it was the most fun I'd had since coming here. I really should spend more time with myself.

After what felt like much too short, the elevator dinged again - and the doors opened up to reveal floor 74.

Reaching for the brochure in my back pocket, I stepped out of the elevator and into something that looked like an overpopulated waiting room. It had to be the biggest waiting room I had ever seen; yet since coming here, it wasn't really much of a surprise to me. On one of the walls, above a long waiting bench, the British flag hung proudly. I logically assumed floor 74 was reserved for Brits like myself. So, not knowing what else to do, I made my way towards the reception, where only one person was standing before me. As soon as he was done, I approached the young brunette on the other side of the counter-window.

"How may I help you, sir?" she asked, London shining through in her accent.

"Hi, yeah," I began, reaching for my ID in my back pocket. "I was told you'd be able to help me," I said, handing her the tiny card.

"Of course," she said, accepting the card through the window and turning to her computer, still holding my card in her left hand. "Your number, sir?" she absentmindedly asked.

"My number?" What damn number? That weird one on the card?

"You did take a number, didn't you?"

Turning around, I noticed an 80-year-old man standing behind me, holding a small ticket in his wrinkly hand.

"Sir? I'm gonna have to ask to see your ticket," she insisted, looking at me through the glass window.

Turning back to her, I asked, "Where could I get one of those?"

She sighed audibly, sliding my ID across the counter. "There's a ticket machine over by the elevator, sir. Come back once your number is called." With that said, she kindly turned to address the man behind me. "Hi. How may I help you, sir?"

Bitch. Just cause I don't have a number, that doesn't give her a reason to treat me like wasted air.

Leaving her and the senior citizen alone, I turned around to approach the elevator. Just like she said, there was a ticket machine standing there, just waiting for me to rip a number out of it. Pushing its tiny red button, a small note came out of the machine. I effortlessly snatched it to myself, having loads of experience in ripping tickets in the postal office, and stared upon the number in my hand.

_248_

Turning to look at the screen above the reception, the number displayed read: _201_.

Using my half-assed math skills, I managed to figure how many numbers I had to endure. Great. There are 47 people ahead of me, and as far as I could tell, there's nowhere to sit. I had no idea dying would be such a bitch. Even in death, you have to wait in line. Where has the world gone to? Honestly, I feel embarrassed on the behalf of the deceased population. Have we really become _that_ organized, that we have to wait in line even in the afterlife?

Taking comfort in leaning against the first piece of wall I could find, I grumpily studied the decoration in the waiting room. Just like down in the lobby, there were benches and flowers. But unlike the harsh posters they had down there, they had portraits of celebrities on the walls. The title above the pictures read:

_'Famous people we've served.'_

Cute. This place actually takes pride in having treated a bunch of dead celebrities. Among those pictures, I could recognize John Lennon, Winston Churchill, Charlie Chaplin and… is that _Shakespeare_? Once stepping closer to the portrait, it was confirmed that it truly was a picture of William Shakespeare on the wall. Wow. This place really goes back a long time. Shakespeare must have died ages ago.

Looking closer at the fine print of the picture, I learned that he was born in 1564 and died in 1616. That would make him 52 years old. Nice to know I managed to outlive Shakespeare with two years, even though I smoke and drink. Ha! In your face, Shakespeare!

Once getting bored with looking at pictures of dead folks, and there were still 26 more numbers to go, I managed to find an available seat. Being bored beyond what should be possible, I turned to the free brochure I'd tucked away in my back pocket. Never before had I read anything even remotely as stupid.

Just to prove my point, I'm going to quote a few paragraphs from the 'Basic Facts' chapter.

_'As you may have realized by now, you are no longer a member of the living population. Being physically dead, your body will no longer require bothersome tasks such as sleeping, eating, or making any kind of bathroom visits. Therefore, Afterlife Incorporation sees no point in serving food or hosting public restrooms._

_'However, we take great pride in our entertainment department, which can be found on the second floor of the building. Here, you can comfortably relax in one of our movie theatres and watch a film about the foundation of the company. Or, you could participate in one of our many support groups, where fellow deceased souls take comfort in the knowledge that they are not alone in going through this crucial process._

_'Just because you're dead, that doesn't mean you have to hurry. Take a moment to explore our second floor.'_

I'm not making this up. This is what the brochure read, word for word. You may now understand how relieved I was once my number was _finally_ called.

Leaving the brochure on my seat, I got up to approach the reception, this time clutching my ticket number. The forced smile on the brunettes face told me that she must have recognized me, as did the stifled irritation in her voice once she addressed me.

"How may I help you, sir?"

"You tell me," I said, sliding my ticket across the desk. "I got a ticket this time, so ye can't send me away."

Pretending she wasn't bothered by my rudeness, she casually took the ticket in her hand to inspect the number.

"248," I told her, earning an annoyed look from her. "That _is_ the number you called, isn't it?"

"Yes," she confirmed, her jaw a little tighter as she spoke. "Now, if you would please hand me your death identificatio--"

Before she had time to finish her sentence, I quickly slid my ID across the counter. "I have no idea what that thing means," I said. "Then again, I guess that's _your_ job."

She briefly offered me a fake smile. "Of course."

Taking the card in her left hand, she turned to her computer and began to type in my information. A few seconds later, she handed the ID back to me.

"All right, sir," she began. "If you would please continue down _that_ hall," she professionally pointed down the corridor to her left, "there should be a door with the letter B on it."

"Lemme guess," I said. "I'm supposed to enter it."

She didn't even bother to acknowledge my wiseassness. "Further information will be found there. Thank you." Then, she quickly treated me like the mass of air she saw me as, and looked beyond me to call the next person. "Number 249."

Taking my identification from the counter, I gave her a nasty glare and set off in the direction I'd been pointed to. It was a rather narrow corridor. Two people could barely walk next to each other without grazing the light blue wallpaper, and I chuckled at the image of an obese woman with a huge ass and enormous bitch tits getting stuck between the walls. Good thing I smoked as much as I did, or else my lack of exercise would have shown on my weight.

Reaching the end of the corridor, there were to doors across from each other. One with the letter A, and the other with the letter B. Remembering what she told me, I turned the handle to the latter door and stepped inside what looked like a giant classroom. Up front, a strict man sat behind his desk, while there were dozens of smaller tables placed around the immaculate room. Almost every desk had a person sitting by it, writing something.

"Yes?" the old man behind the desk looked up, a questioning look on his flat features.

"I was told you'd help me," I said, stepping between the narrow rows of tables. Once reaching the man by the desk, I quickly held out my ID.

"That will not be necessary," he said, he too sounding like he was from London. He nonchalantly waved off my card and offered me a piece of paper along with a pencil. Generous man. At least he didn't keep it chained to his desk like the woman down in the lobby.

Accepting the two things, I looked at him with a perplexed expression.

"You may take a seat," he said, flatly. "Once you've filled out the document, you're to leave it neatly on my desk." He pointed to a pile of identical papers to his right. There had to have been hundreds of documents in that pile, so I suppose I wasn't the first to fill them out.

"Sure," I said, turning around to look for a place to sit. I found an available desk down by the left corner, which suited me just fine, being as I preferred solitude to crowds. Approaching the desk, I took a seat in the cheap looking chair and adjusted myself by he table, the sound of my chair scarping against the floor causing everyone to look up at me.

Oh, excuse _me_ for interrupting your precious silence. I must go hang myself immediately. Idiots.

Gripping the blue ink pencil in my right hand, I turned my focus to the paper. I quickly realized it was one of those 'check the box of your choice' documents. Good, that shouldn't take as long as the rest of the stuff at this place. But when looking closer at the paper, I realized how wrong I truly was in that assumption.

You wouldn't believe some of the questions they had on that paper.

It started out like any other statistic survey. Crossing one box for your gender, filling out your name and age. Yadah, yadah, yadah… But then, once those first questions were answered, everything went downhill.

The point was to fill out how well each statement suited you, by either checking the box for 'False,' 'Partly true,' or 'True.' Then, there were questions such as - and again - I'm quoting this word for word:

_'I enjoyed life… _Box No. 1: **_False_**, Box No. 2: _**Partly true**,_ or Box No. 3: **_True_.**

_'I prefer the summer to winter… **False**, **Partly true**, _or_ **True**_

_'I wouldn't mind having siblings… **False**, **Partly true**, _or_ **True**_

'_I wouldn't mind being born into a poor family… **False**, **Partly true**, _or_ **True**_

_'I wouldn't mind being born as the opposite gender… **False**, **Partly true**, or **True**_

_'I wouldn't mind being born with a chronic disease…'_

The list just went on and on from there. I'm telling you, these people must've been around dead folks for too long. And who would actually – _willingly_ – choose to be born poor, or sick, for that matter? Obviously, this was some sort of list you had to fill out in order to be reborn. I suppose my answers are meant help them picking out a suiting life for me. Personally, I don't think this list has anything to do with my future life to be. Let's face it, everyone's pretty much choosing the same boxes. No, I just think it's a way for them to earn more time, to stall the process even further. I mean, Christ, it's been hours since I passed away on my hallway floor, and I'm not any closer to being alive than I was the moment I entered this freaky building.

Having filled out the list, I got up from my desk and dropped the piece of paper at the very top of the pile. The strict man motioned for me to give him back his pencil, which made him shrink to the same level of fat headedness as the paranoid receptionist in the lobby.

"Good," he said. "You may leave through the door to your right." Then, he quickly turned back to reading some sort of book he had in front of him.

I turned to look at the door he was talking about, and realized it wasn't the same one through which I came in. Shrugging to myself, I did as I was told and exited the classroom.

Once again, I stepped into a waiting room of some sorts. Only _this_ one was even bigger than the one I mentioned earlier, and even more crowded, at that. There were people everywhere, most of them keeping quiet, while some of them mindlessly chatted with their dead neighbour. The wall to my left was entirely made of windows, expensive glass that reached from the ceiling all the way down to the floor. With the help of these windows, light practically burst into the overpopulated room. And the light seemed to land upon something in particular, as if God himself was pointing it out to me.

Recognizing the oh-so-familiar ticket machine in front of me, I groaned to myself, knowing I had a lot of waiting in front of me. I got myself a ticket and surveyed the number written on it.

_1.312_

Great. Four digits. How does this system work, anyway?

The moment I was about to start sulking over the fact that I had no place to sit, number 1.008 was called, leaving a seat open. I could tell I wasn't the only one to notice, as half the people in the room seemed to sprint towards the bench in question. This time, though, luck was on my side. I was merely two steps away from the bench, and snatched the seat before anyone else had the chance to even pose as a threat to me.

Showed them, crazy dead folks.

The man to my right chuckled at my victorious facial expression, and I quickly turned to look at him. He was bald, and the few tufts of hair he still had left on his cue ball-shaped skull were sand-blonde. Also, the guy's belly was big enough to fit triplets, yet he didn't look to be much older than 30, 40 at tops.

"Congratulations," he said, his accent sounding almost Australian, if I wasn't ridiculously wrong. "You certainly won the seat fair and square."

"Yeah well, I had a head start," I answered, still smiling over the fact that I beat them all.

"Name's Michael," he said, offering me his hand. "But all my friends call me Mike, or at least they used to," he jokingly added.

I firmly shook his hand, smiling at his ability to be able to joke about his death. "I'm Roy," I told him.

"Roy, huh?" he asked. "You know that means 'red'?"

"What? Like the colour red?"

"Yeah," he nodded.

"No, actually, I didn't," I replied, somewhat puzzled over his topic of choice for conversation starter. "In what language?"

"Huh?" he asked.

"Red. In what language does Roy mean red?" I wondered.

Taking a moment to think about it, he soon shook his head, smiling broadly. "I have no idea. I guess I forgot that part," he light-heartedly admitted. "But, I'm dead sure that's what it means."

"I believe ye," I said.

"So, are you from like Ireland or something?" he suddenly asked.

"Ireland?" I repeated. What would make him think that? "Are ye crazy? I'm from _Scot_land. Anyone can hear that."

"Yeah well, I'm Australian myself," he explained, pointing to himself with his thumb. "So I don't know a whole lot about Scots."

"Australia?" I questioned. "But I thought this floor was for Brits only?"

"It is," he quickly ensured. "But you see, I moved to London when I was… 22, I think. So I guess _legally_ that makes me British."

"I guess it does," I agreed, casting a glance at the number board, reading: 1.114. Great, only about 300 more to go. It should be my turn any minute now.

"What's your number?"

I turned to look at him in surprise. "Huh?"

"Your ticket, what's your number?" he asked, looking at me with wide brown eyes.

"Oh, uh.." Stealing a glance at the note, I answered him, "1.312."

"I guess you've got some waiting to do then, huh?" he grinned, and I noticed for the first time his small group of freckles on his nose and cheeks. Not that often you see a grown, bald male with freckles. Then again, it's not that often you die and have to wait in line to be served, either. So I guess his freckles aren't that big of a deal.

"Unfortunately," I confirmed with a heavy sigh. "What's yours?"

"Oh, no I came yesterday," Mike quickly explained. "My number's already been up."

"Yester_day_?" I repeated. Somehow, I had a feeling I'd be sitting on this bench for a long time. I had always known I would have to do a lot of waiting in this room, but _days_? The fantasy of the hell-ticket salesmen outside the building started to sound more and more appealing to me. Too bad I didn't have any money on me in that fantasy of mine.

"Yeah. I'm in the database," he said, waking me from my thoughts. "They're just waiting for an opening. But I think that could take a while."

"An opening?" How long has this guy been here? He's already using their terms and everything. I'm not even sure I want to know the words I'll be using by tomorrow. Surely, at this rate, they'll have me completely brainwashed by then. Maybe I'll even be sitting behind one of those counters, greeting people with fake smiles. Oh, God, let it be my turn soon.

"Yeah well, you know. I'm in line, waiting to be born," he explained. "Or _re_born, I guess I should say," he corrected himself, rolling his eyes.

"And you've been waiting since _yester_day?"

"Finding the perfect embryo takes time, or so I've been told anyway," he muttered under his breath.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean is that us old folks here in room B has to step back for all those young, fresh studs across the hall. There's a reason you weren't picked to go to room A, y'know?" he said, poking me on my bulging belly. Like he's one to talk?

"Old folks?" I told him, slapping away his hand from my stomach. Had this guy ever heard of personal space? "Buddy, I didn't even get a chance to retire." And ain't that a bitch? You work and slave your whole life, and then you don't even get the chance to enjoy the fruit of your labour. Talk about being ripped off.

"Yeah well, look around ya," he said, his eyes travelling across the crowded room. "Can you see anyone in here below 30?"

Looking around the bright room, I realized how right he was. I couldn't find any children, which was odd, since they died too every once in a while. Even _I_ knew a kid who'd died long before his time. And out of all the grownups in the room, not a single one of them appeared to be under 30. Most guys were bald, while the larger group of the woman in the room had an ass as wide as the backseat of a Vista Cruiser. Either that or tits that dangled all the way down to their knees. It wasn't pretty, I'll tell you that.

"What the hell?" I mumbled to myself, trying to put the pieces together. "What kind of discrimination is this?"

"I dunno," Mike shrugged. "I guess they feel younger folks are a priority in getting picked to be reborn, since they didn't get to live as long as we did. It's the only reason I can come up with, anyway."

"As _long_ as we did?" I questioned sarcastically. "Who drew the line, anyway? Having just passed 30 and dying is not exactly doing old, y'know?"

"You're thirty?" he suddenly asked, losing complete interest in what we were just talking about.

"No," I answered bitterly. "But that's beside the point. The point is, you're saying that if I'd died from pneumonia when I was 17, then I wouldn't be waiting here for my number to be called?"

"Bingo."

"Great," I muttered in annoyance. "I should've just refused to take the penicillin when I had the chance." Granted, I wouldn't have met my wife and had my two kids with her, but you can't miss something you never had.

Michael chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Yeah, and I should've just stayed in the water when they yelled 'shark' on the beach."

The two of us laughed in spite of ourselves, but our laughter soon died out, and I found myself staring at the number board in trance, watching the digits change in slow motion. It was like watching a plant grow – a _very_ slow process.

"Hey, you know what?"'

Turning to look at Mike, I arched an eyebrow in curiosity.

"I have an idea," he announced with a wicked smile, one I felt like I already knew. I guess he wasn't that hard to read. It seemed he plastered all his emotions on his face. "But you need to watch my seat so none of those vultures steal it while I'm gone," he then added, posting a slightly more serious look on his features.

"Where ye going?"

"Not far," he answered swiftly. "Just tell them I went to the bathroom or something."

"They don't have bathrooms here," I quickly reminded him, thinking back to that brochure I'd read earlier. The entire concept of not being able to pee was still kind of hard to swallow.

"Oh yeah," he said, nodding to himself. "I totally forgot about that. Actually, I miss peeing," he confessed sadly. "And eating," he quickly added.

"You and me both," I told him, patting my stomach. "I miss being hungry." The two of us were left reminiscing the sweet taste of food, when I suddenly remembered something. "So, weren't you going someplace?"

"Oh right!" he quickly realized. "Hold my seat," he said as he got up and hurried across the room, his short form disappearing easily in the crowd. As soon as his ass left the surface of the bench, tons of people moved in to claim the throne as their own. The first one to approach was a red haired woman on her 50s. Her eyes were locked on her target like a hawk.

Putting my hand on the seat to keep her from sitting, I quickly told her, "Sorry, lady. This seat's taken."

"By who?" she demanded, crossing her fat arms over her sloppy tits.

"By Michael, that's who," I told her. 'By who?' What kind of question was that anyway? Like knowing his name would make her change her mind and back away.

"Then where is Michael now?"

I told you it wouldn't matter.

"He'll be right back," I insisted. "He just saw somebody he recognized."

"Oh," she replied, a bit dumbfounded by my quick answer. "Well in case he's not coming back, I'm waiting here," she added snobbishly.

"Fine," I said, keeping my hand on the seat. Stubborn bitch. I wonder if she was this stubborn in life. I find it hard to believe a hawk like her would give in to death once it came to claim her. Must have been a slow process.

A few seconds later, Mike showed and I removed my hand to allow him to sit. Sending the woman a proud grin, she huffed at me and walked away. Then, I quickly turned back to Mike, who was holding a ticket of his own in his hand.

"What's that for?" I asked. "I thought you'd already been called?"

"I was," he confirmed, reaching inside his dark blue sweat pants for something. Once his hand returned, it clutched a black ink pencil.

"They let you _keep_ yours?" I asked, quite surprised over the fact.

"This?" he questioned, motioning to the pen in his hand. "No, this one's my own. Good thing I had a pencil in my pocket when that car hit me, huh?" he chuckled to himself.

"You were hit by a car?" I asked, my heart sinking at the thought. At least my death was my own fault. He was killed by somebody else.

"Yeah, some speeding asshole that didn't care about the traffic light being red. I was out for my morning jog when he hit me," he explained, taking off the cork with his teeth.

"Sorry," I said, not knowing what else to say. What _can_ you say?

"Don't worry 'bout it," he shrugged, speaking with the cork in his mouth. "We're all dead here, so it's not like I'm special or anything."

"True," I nodded, trying to picture him on his morning jog. It was hard to imagine, a guy with a belly like his. I was quickly forced to give up on the futile thought. "So what are you doing, anyway?" I asked, trying to peek on his ticket. The number on it read: 131, which instantly led me to understand that it was a used ticket. He must've picked it up from the floor or something.

"One of the oldest tricks in the book," he snickered, adding a thick black line in front of the number, magically transforming it to: 1.131.

I couldn't help but snicker with him. "That looks like a pretty decent replica," I commented. "It's not your first time cheating, is it?"

"Not really," he replied, looking up at me with a wide grin.

"But what about the guy with the _real_ ticket?" I suddenly remembered. "There'll be two of us up there once number 1.131 is called."

"So what?" he shrugged, corking his pencil. "It's your word against his. Just act ignorant."

"And that'll work." I said, unconvinced of his word.

"'Course it will," he insisted confidently. "How do ya think I managed to sneak 80 numbers ahead of _my_ ticket?" Smirking, he slipped his pen back inside his pants pocket.

Grinning, I snatched the ticket out of his grip. This might actually work. Good thing I ended up next to a devilish guy with a black pen in his pants.

"So how'd _you_ go?"

"Huh?" I looked up at him in confusion.

"Die," he explained. "How'd you die?"

"In the hallway," I answered, smiling to myself. "When putting on my shoes."

"In the hall_way_?" he repeated with wide eyes, fear shining through them.

I simply nodded.

"Was it a burglar?" he worriedly wondered.

Chuckling to myself, I shook my head in amusement. "Hardly," I said. "Just a good ol' heart attack." I punched at my chest to point out the viscus in question.

"Oh," he realized sheepishly. "Sorry."

"Nah, don't be," I told him. "It's like you said: we're all dead here."

He nodded in agreement. "Yeah, but still," he insisted. "What a way to go."

"I know what'cha mean," I told him, nodding in agreement. "I always thought my death would be much more… I dunno.. special. Like a rare disease, or-or even a car accident. But putting my _shoes_ on? It's not exactly something I'd wanna put on my resume."

"Like 'run over by an inconsiderate ass' sounds much better?" Mike offered with a smirk.

"You've got a point," I agreed with a chuckle.

* * *

After chatting about everything between heaven and earth for a few minutes, my replica-made number was finally called. Sharing a wicked grin with my partner in crime, I rose from my seat with the ticket firmly clutched in my hand. Just like we predicted, there were two of us with that number. Someone else approached the booth the same time I did. With my usual luck, it turned out this 'someone else' was the same snobby woman that had tried to steal Mike's seat earlier. I mean, what can I say? Typical.

"How may I help you?" the perky blonde receptionist quickly noticed there were two people standing on the other side of her protective glass window. "Excuse me? Is there a problem?"

"I don't know," I said, turning to glare at the woman next to me. "Is there?"

"What are you implying?" she asked, in that upper-class British accent of hers.

"May I see your tickets?" the receptionist asked.

"Sure thing," I told her, dumping my ticket on the counter, my rival doing the same with hers.

"How did this happen?" the blonde suddenly asked, inspecting my ticket a little longer than I felt was comfortable. It's a number, okay? How long do you have to stare at it?

"I don't know," I replied, acting ignorant according to the plan. "I've been waiting for hours for my number to come, and when it finally does, _this_ happens." I pointed to the two tickets in her hands, resting my other arm on the counter, trying to look relaxed.

The receptionist sent me an unimpressed stare, one of her eyebrows raised in doubt. I could almost feel the sweat dripping down my forehead.

"Certainly, that's very strange, sir," she said, handing back my ticket to me underneath the window. "Because _this_ ticket is forged."

Fuck. Busted.

"What makes you say that?" I wondered, trying to keep it cool. All wasn't lost yet, as long as I remained ignorant; she had no real proof that my ticket was the false o--

"There's a black stain on this ticket," she declared, sliding her hand beneath the window and pointing to the stain in question. "Looks a lot like the ink that's been used in writing this number, _sir_," she spat, pointing to the digit Mike drew.

"Yeah well, I have no idea how that got there." What? I suppose _you_ would've had a better answer.

"I'm sure you don't," she said, staring at me through a pair of blue-green, unforgiving eyes.

* * *

"How'd it go?" Mike curiously asked as I approached him. He quickly removed the hand he'd been keeping on my seat to save it from being taken by the persistent vultures.

"She caught our bluff," I blatantly revealed, holding up my new ticket to him as I sat down. "I've got number 1.398."

"Man.." he said, shaking his head in sympathy. "What a drag,"

"Isn't it?" I agreed, glancing at him through the corner of my right eye. "That's why I told her it was your pencil," I added smugly.

"You _what_?" he outburst, turning to look at me in shock. "You did? You sold me _out_?"

"Damn straight I did," I snapped. "If it wasn't for you, I'd still have number 1.312."

"Yeah, but I only did it to help you out," he insisted. "I had no _idea_ you'd get caught."

"Whatever," I said, shutting me ears to his explanation. "I have a feeling you'll be waiting here with me, so there's no hard feelings." I told him, patting him on his left shoulder.

"Gee.. thanks," he muttered in annoyance.

* * *

Two days. It's been two whole days since my number 1.398 was called. The receptionist calmly added me in her database, telling me to take a seat and wait for an 'opening' to come. Well, while waiting for them to call my name, Mike and I have witnessed people come and go; people that came in here _long_ after we did. I'm beginning to think this is something personal.

There's been a lot people leaving through that door to the right of the reception – and none of them have been me. How long can it take to find an embryo, anyway? Millions of people bump uglies on a daily basis, some of all these couples should have made a baby in the process, be it accidental or on purpose. And yet, here I am, still waiting for that damn embryo that's supposed to have my name on it. Could I at least have been tired, I could've taken a nap or something. But _no_. We're not allowed to have glamorous urges such as hunger, tiredness or that familiar pressing sensation in the crotch. Damn, I miss peeing.

Stupid rules. Someday, I'll break them all. Be it in this life, or the next.

"Hmh.."

"What?" I asked, turning to look at Mike in irritation.

"Did you know that when I hold my hand like this," he said, hiding two of his fingers by holding up his hand at a certain angle, "it looks like I've only got three fingers." He chuckled to himself, playfully waving his three digits.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," I muttered and rose from the bench, giving absolutely no damn about the crowd that made a break for my seat once it was available on the market again.

"Roy, where ya going?" Mike called out after me.

"I'm sick of this place!" I called back to him, pushing myself past the 30 plus crowd in the room. Raging towards the reception, I didn't care about the old man that was being served at the moment; I simply made room for myself right next to him. "I want out of this place!" I demanded, practically sticking my face up against the booth-window.

"Sir, I'm gonna have to ask you to return to your seat." It was a new receptionist. She looked as though she came from India, but she spoke British fluently, like any other chick from London.

"The hell I will!" I refused. "I've been waiting for two days for you to call my name, I'm not waiting so much as another moment."

"I'll just wait till he's done," the old man mumbled, carefully stepping aside with his ticket.

"No-- sir, wait," the receptionist called out after him, quickly losing the sight of his crippled form once it disappeared in the crowd.

"You're gonna help or not?" I demanded, knocking on the surface of window to get her attention.

"Sir, if you don't return to your seat, I'm going to have to call for security," she threatened, keeping her tone professional.

"And then what?" I wondered. "They'll make me wait two more days?" Come to think of it, that would be really bad.

"Sir.." she began, looking at me through the glass, her dark brown eyes almost pleading with me to return to my seat.

"Look," I said, leaning my arms on the counter, gazing into her eyes in search of understanding. "I know you can help me," I said calmly. "Just look something up on the computer."

She lowered her gaze from mine, glancing at her computer beside her.

"Please," I whispered. "I just want out."

"Roy, the hell are you doing?" Mike asked, appearing next to me with a bewildered look on his face. "I had to give up my seat because of you."

I sent him a quick look, letting him know it wasn't the right time to be arguing about lost seats. I had bigger things to worry about. Like being born, for example.

"You've been here for two days, sir?"

Quite shocked when she addressed me, I looked at her and nodded. "Yeah," I confirmed. "And he's been here for three," I added, pointing to my short friend standing next to me.

She took a moment to think about it, biting the inside of her cheek. Good thing it was a new receptionist. The old one wouldn't have hesitated to throw us out. Lucky me, they seemed to be working in shifts at this place.

Finally, after looking over her options in silence, she turned back to me. "I'll see what I can do," she said.

"Thank you," I told her, while Mike added a few more 'thank you's' to the plate, each more enthusiastic than the previous. Good thing she was protected behind that glass window, or he probably would've showered her with Australian kisses. Maybe that's a custom there, I don't know. He seemed pretty thankful, though.

The woman smiled awkwardly and turned to her computer, her fingers dancing across the keyboard. Mike and I looked at each other through her clicking, smiling in relief, knowing we'd be out of here soon.

"Well," she finally said, her hand cupping the mouse, clicking on something on the page she had open. "There _are_ four openings available at the moment..."

"We'll take it," Mike and I said in unison. My inner child was cheering wildly in anticipation, jumping up and down in a pure act of joy.

"...but the bodies in question are turtles," she then revealed, bursting our shiny bubble.


	2. Closing Chapter

**A/N:** _Well, I'm done with the last chapter of this little tale. I hope you'll enjoy reading it, as I did writing it. These two chaps has to be the longest chapters I've ever written. But this fic wouldn't work if I cut it into more chapters than I already have. I even thought about posting it as one whole chapter, but that would have been too long to read all at once. At least I think so. Anyway, thanks a bunch to those of you that reviewed. You know who you are._

* * *

**Closing Chapter**

**-**

"They're _what_?" I questioned, not quite sure I'd heard her right. She said 'turtles', right? But she couldn't have. I mean, it's absurd! She _really _said turtles? It wasn't just something that _sounded_ like turtles? No, I probably just heard wrong. Because when you think about it, there's no _chance_ she could have said turt--

"_Tur_tles?" Mike outburst in disbelief. Okay, so she probably did say turtles. Still doesn't make any sense, though.

"Yes," she nodded, confirming my theory. "Although, not quite," she hesitantly added.

"Not _quite_?" I repeated in confusion. "What the hell's that supposed to mean? 'Not quite?' Either they're turtles, or they're not."

"Well – anatomically – they are," she confirmed with a small nod. "But the essence of animals are handled separately to the essence of humans, so we weren't quite sure in which department to place these beings."

"Department?" I asked, bewildered. "The hell are you saying?"

"What I'm saying, sir, is that while they might begin their lives as normal turtles, destiny has put a certain… spin.. to their development," she finished, having found the proper term she was searching for.

"Huh?" Mike asked, his face showing no signs of intelligence, whatsoever. Having spent the past two days with him, I'd learned to look at that certain facial expression as something familiar when it came to him. The look of pure confusion suited him, strangely.

"Gentlemen," she began, quickly losing her patience with our earthly ignorance. "These are humanoid turtles. Brothers, in fact," she then added.

"So, what you're saying is that you're offering us a chance to be born as a related bunch of walking, talking turtles," I slowly concluded, trying to wrap my brain around the concept. It's not exactly everyday someone asks you to be reborn as a mutated animal. In fact, this is the first time. Had there been another, I would have remembered that.

"Yes," she nodded. "It's the opportunity of a lifetime." She was obviously trying to sell us these non-wanted turtle bodies. I had a feeling they'd been on the market for quite some time; and had it been any other situation, I would have told her to go fuck herself. But this wasn't just any other situation – and frankly, I was fed up with waiting for the perfect embryo to be created. Apparently, there was no such thing to begin with.

"We'll take it," I said, shocking both Mike and the receptionist with my decision. I'll admit, impatience isn't really the perfect state of mind when making a decision like this. But they'll have to re-kill me before I sit my ass down on that bench again. And besides, if it doesn't work out, I can always jump off a bridge or something and come back up here. Not that I'm in a hurry to go through this god damned process again. So, let's just call that 'plan B.'

"What?" they questioned in sync with each other. "We _will_?" Mike asked, looking at me in confusion.

"We?" I repeated. "_You_ can do whatever you want, I'm sick of waiting. I'm signing up for the mutant." Turning back to the stunned receptionist, I flicked my fingers to get her attention. "Hey, lady!" She snapped out of her daze and turned back to me. "So, how does this reincarnation thing work? Got anymore papers ye need me to sign?"

"Of course," she said, still slightly stunned by my sudden agreement. She turned back to her computer and did a few clicks with the mouse. During this, I could feel Mike's shocked stare upon me, something I simply ignored. Felt good shocking _him_, for once. Soon, the computer began to print something out, and as soon as the process was done, she reached for the paper and handed it to me, slipping it beneath the receptionist-window. "Here, sir," she said, handing me a chainless pencil.

I accepted the pen and lowered my eyes to the document, skimming through it quickly. Basically, it said that once my signature was written on that thin, dotted line, I was no longer Roy Hart. 'Cause I had signed on for another life, another identity - which I still didn't know that much of, (apart from the humanoid turtle part). Knowing there was no turning back now, I grabbed a stronger hold of the pen and wrote down my name down by the right corner of the paper.

"You're really serious about this," Mike realized, staring at me as I sealed the deal.

"Yup," I said, slipping the document back across the counter.

"You're really going into the afterlife as a turtle," he said, looking at me with a pair of big, stunned eyes.

"Actually, sir, that's _humanoid_ turtle," the receptionist quickly corrected, neatly putting the document in one of her folders.

Silence came over us as the lady returned to her computer to type in my information, most likely informing her boss of my decision, when Michael suddenly opened his mouth,

"I'll do it, too."

The lady's fingers froze on the keyboard, and I turned to look at my friend in disbelief.

"You will?" I asked, not really willing to believe him. Maybe he was just doing this out of pressure of my sudden decision? Or maybe he was doing it to impress me? Maybe he secretly looked up to me or something? I mean, I _am _pretty admirable.

"Yeah," he nodded confidently. "There's no way I'm going back to that bench. So if I have to sign up for a giant turtle to avoid it, then that's what I'm gonna do."

Okay, so maybe _that_ was his reason for doing it. Oh well, I guess everyone can't admire me.

"Certainly," the receptionist said, quickly turning back to her computer to print out one more document.

"You're sure about this?" I wondered, looking at Mike in doubtfulness.

"As sure as pizza is flat," he replied, waiting for the receptionist to hand him the paper. Huh. That was a weird sentence. Come to think of it, most of his are. This one though, about flat pizza, that one had to take the cake.

Once the paper was handed to him, and he signed it without reading so much as a single word of it, a voice spoke up behind us,

"How many openings are there left?"

The two of us, along with the receptionist, turned to look at the source of this voice. It was that old man I'd rudely pushed aside when approaching the booth. He was fairly tall for a man of his age, with huge clown feet and ears big enough to catch a conversation on the other side of the universe, so I suppose it wasn't that unlikely that he'd heard what the three of us had been talking about, standing in the same room, and all.

"Two, sir," the ebony skinned woman answered him, accepting the pen and paper as Mike handed them back to her.

"And these are humanoid turtles?" the old man questioned, as if to get it confirmed.

"Correct," she nodded.

He took a moment to think to himself, the wheels behind his large forehead spinning like crazy. "Sign me up," he finally declared, a look of pleased determination on his face.

"Of course," she nodded, turning back to her trusty old computer to print yet another document. A minute ago, she pretty much begged us to sign up for these turtle brothers, and now they were practically selling like rapping paper on Christmas.

Man, was I a trendsetter at this place, or what?

As soon as the computer was done printing, the receptionist politely slid the document across the counter, placing the pen on top of it. The old man expectantly looked at Mike and I, his eyes asking us a question I couldn't quite figure out. When he started to motion with his hands for us to step aside, the mystery dawned on me. We quickly moved aside to give him space between the two of us, where he calmly grabbed the pen and went through the document – thoroughly. I swear, he spent like five minutes reading the damn thing, I mean okay, his vision was probably a bit off, concerning his age and all, but _five minutes_? That's a long time for reading through a few paragraphs.

We were all so bored, even the receptionist. I caught some monotone dings from her computer, so it wouldn't surprise me if she turned on some videogame she had there. I mean, the persistent clicking on the keyboard, combined with the arcade-ish sounds and the sudden outburst of her exclaiming "Score!" in the middle of the mind boggling silence, gave me a few clues as to what she was up to. I wonder if they were allowed to do that, though? On the clock and everything.

Once those five minutes had _finally_ passed, the man casually cleared his throat and lifted the pencil to sign the paper – at last. He didn't seem to be in much of a hurry.

"Well," Mike said, slamming his hand on top of the old man's shoulder. "Looks like you just signed up to be our brother."

The man turned to look at Mike with a puzzled expression, not so much by the statement he'd made, but simply because of his forward behaviour. Yeah. It took some time getting used to, that's for sure. Myself, I'd had two days to adjust, but Mike was as fresh to the old man as the air he breathed. And about that. Damn, I don't think I've ever tasted air this fresh before. What kind of purifier system do they used at this place? Then again, there are no toilets, and no food, so I guess that could be a part of it. And the jungle of plants certainly added to the freshness. But still, I felt like I was inhaling one hundred pound, like I was getting broker by each breath I took. Had I been any cheaper, I would've forced myself to hold my breath.

"It would appear that way," the man answered as he turned back to the receptionist to slide the paper across the desk. She nodded in appreciation and accepted the document, adding it to the same folder she kept our documents in.

"So, what's your name, old man?" Michael asked curiously, flashing his future sibling a big smile.

"Donald," the man answered in a well-spoken English accent. "Sir. Donald Boyle." Sir, huh? He didn't strike me as one. He looked too.. err… mellow. But I guess looks can deceive, 'cause I'm getting a snob for a brother in this future life of mine – a turtle snob, nonetheless. If things keep going like this, I'll probably be travelling with the Gypsy Circus by the time I've hit the age of 4. What kind of life have I signed up for, here?

Oh well, beats waiting.

Donald kindly offered his old wrinkly hand for Mike to take, which he naturally did, shaking it violently; the old fop's glasses gracelessly sliding down his big hook for a nose. Judging by that nose and those elephant ears of his, he had to be well over 80. But he didn't move like he was 80, and he seemed to have a little too many working lights in that head office of his to be that old. Hmm.. Maybe he was more like 70. I honestly have no idea. One thing for certain though, he was over 30, or else he wouldn't be in room B with the rest of us.

"I'm Mike, and that's Roy," the optimist said, pointing to myself. "Welcome to the family."

"Thank you," Donald smiled, awkwardly retreating his hand from Mike's steady grip.

"So," I turned to the receptionist, attempting to put an end to this cosy family meeting of ours. "What door do we have to pass in order to be reborn?"

"Oh, I'm sorry, sir." Damn. I don't like the sound of that. Any speech that begins with the word 'sorry' holds nothing but bad news. Shitty, crappy, bad fucking news.

"The cleansing process can't begin until a forth party has signed up for it."

Shit. Told you it was bad news.

"What forth party?" I outburst. "You never said anything 'bout a forth party!"

The young woman cringed at my voice. "Sir, if you could please try and understand," she began. "We can't do anything until we have a forth name signature to pass on. You're all scheduled to be hatched at the same time." _Hatched_? The hell is she talking ab-- Oh, right. We're turtles. I can't believe I forgot.

"Fuck," I muttered to myself, turning away from her and blowing out a breath of one hundred pound expensive air. "Well, isn't there anything you could do?" I asked, searching for that faint stream of light I needed in order to keep myself from going insane. "Can't you skip a few steps?"

She shook her head in apology.

"Well, can't we just forget this forth guy and go ahead without him?" I desperately suggested.

"Certainly not," she replied, kind of pissed off. "We'd never waste an earthly life, especially for something as insignificant as your impatience." She angrily bore her dark brown eyes into mine, the vein on her forehead beginning to grow more visible, pulsating fiercely. She was the first person here that had succeeded in scaring me, or at least that throbbing vein of hers.

"Well," Donald timidly cut in, sensing it was best to do so. "You don't suppose you could use the speakers to ask if there is anyone else in here that might be interested?" Huh. I suppose that beats leaving our last brother behind. Damn, this guy was smart… for an old foppish snob, that is.

"I suppose," the woman silently agreed, turning to her microphone at her left. Pressing a button on the table, she spoke into the microphone. "If I could please have everyone's attention," she asked, quieting down all the chatter in the room. The poor bastards were probably waiting for her to call one of their numbers. "Thank you," she said, glancing at the three of us before continuing. "It has been brought to my attention that we might have an opening for one of you."

The room burst into flames, people fighting each other like raving zombies as they fought to make their way to the reception booth. It was like watching a hoard of rampant kids the second after someone announced 'Candy rain!'

"However," she added, causing the wrestling crowd to freeze in their steps. "The opening in question is a humanoid turtle."

That was all it took for everyone to sigh in unison and disappointedly make their way back to the first available seat they could find… or steal. Whichever came to mind.

Letting go of the button, the woman turned back to look at the three of us. "I'm sorry," she said, sadly shaking her head.

"Tell them they'll get to be our brother!" Mike said enthusiastically, excitedly hitting his palms on the counter.

Donald and myself gave him a doubtful glare.

"What?" he wondered innocently.

"Mike, ye can't be serious," I told him.

"Why not?" he questioned. "It might work." Turning back to look at the receptionist, he pleaded with her to use his idea. "C'mon. Maybe they'll go for it." Oh god. This guy was too much. I can't believe I have to grow up with him. If he'll be this stupid even after we're hatched, I'll kill him for sure. I'll get hatched before him, just so I can keep him from coming out of his egg.

"What if you were to check with the other floors?" the old Sir asked, earning the young lady's attention. "Well," he began, slightly shy now that all three of us were looking at him. "It's a big building. Statistically, there should be at the very least one more person that's interested in the open position."

The woman seemed to be considering his words, biting the inside of her cheek as her eyes drifted off to stare at thin air.

"To have found three out of these four quite unique openings in the same room must go beyond anyone's expectations," he said, causing the receptionist to look back at him, having taken in his words.

"You have a point, sir," she said, nodding in agreement.

Damn, this big-eared fop was smart. Talk about thinking outside the box, eh? I even forgot there was a world outside of this room. Maybe that's 'cause I've been in here for so damn long. All those other floors stopped mattering after that first day of waiting.

"I will check with the other floors," she revealed, turning to her phone to her right, dialling what appeared to be a very short number. With the wired phone pressed to her ear, she waited for a response on the other end.

"Hello, yes this is Kitty at 74th, department B," she professionally introduced herself. "Could you connect me to Head department?" she asked, turning herself around with the phone to hear ear, pinching it between her ear and shoulder. "Thank you." Reaching for the computer mouse, she began clicking, her eyes searching the screen.

"Sir?" she spoke into the phone. "Yes, this is Kitty Andersen. I believe I've found three subjects for the turtle openings," she revealed, smiling at the answer that came from the other end of the phone. "Thank you, sir. But I was thinking, until we've filled the last spot, there is nothing more we can do in terms of this case.

"Yes, I've already checked with the people here. None of them are interested." She paused, glancing at me as she listened to what the other person had to say. "Indeed, sir. A real shame. I'd hoped we could finally put this case behind us. Statistically, it shouldn't even be possible to have filled three of the openings on the same day, much less on the same _floor_." Again, she paused as the other guy spoke, and a sneaky smile quickly spread across her dark features.

"Why yes, sir. That should most certainly work. You'll contact the other floors, then?"

Damn, she was good. Manipulating the guy into thinking it was his idea. She seemed to know what she was doing. I pity her husband… if she's married, that is. I'm sure she's fed his ego into doing all kinds of things. 'Oh, but honey. You're so much better at painting the ceiling than I am. Plus, I just love you in those pants. They really do amplify your buns of steel.' Poor guy. He's standing there, thinking: 'Buns of steel, eh?' Checking out his own ass, he's too busy absorbing the so obviously untrue compliment to notice the victorious grin on her formally angelic face. 'I have buns of steel? Well I guess now that she mentions it, I suppose I do.'

And yes, before you ask, that's me talking from own experience. I was married for 32 years. I should know a thing or two about buns of steel. For one, I've never had them. But somehow, I seemed to forget that part whenever she wanted me to pick up her parents at the train station. I honestly felt like I was sitting on a pair of genuine, grade A buns of steel when driving in my car, brainwashed by my own Rita into giving her old crows a forty-minute lift in my darling Buick. On the way back though, once those two living deads sat in the backseat, yelling at each other and complaining about me driving too fast, those buns of steel seemed to fade into oblivion, and I found myself sitting on that same old ass I've always been sitting on.

She was really something, my Rita.

Like I said, poor husband of hers. Kitty certainly knew how to wrap a guy's ego around her pinkie.

"Thank you, sir," the receptionist said, smiling broadly. "I'll be waiting for that phone call. Certainly, sir. Bye." With that, she hung up the phone and turned to the three of us, still grinning proudly. "Your proposition went through," she said, looking at Donald, who, now as I looked at him, appeared to be just as proud as she was. What do you know? It's not everyday that you see an 80-year-old guy that thinks he's got buns of steel. Heh heh.

"Anyway," she continued, grabbing a hold of herself and posting that same old look of unaffected professionalism on her face. "If you'll kindly step aside, I'll notice you as soon as I hear anything."

Nodding, the three of us made our way to the left side of the room, in spying range of the reception.

"Number 982," she called through the speakers, another person elbowing himself through the crowd the reach the counter. Good old number 982. It turns out they started from scratch after number 2.999 was called. I wonder how many 982s there have really been? Totally.

"Way to go, Sir Donald. Remind me to thank you once we're reborn," Mike happily commented, playfully punching the old guy on his upper arm, causing him to lose his foothold for a short second. I scowled Michael in annoyance. Even _I_ knew better than to punch 80-year-olds.

The goofy Australian only flashed me a sheepish smile in return. I got the feeling there was no cure for his disease. Either you're born with common sense, or you're not. One can only hope he'll get luckier in his next life. Maybe he could bribe someone, or something? Just to even the odds a bit.

While the two of them picked up a small conversation about the entertainment floor of the building – which I'm not very surprised to learn that they've both been to – I did my best keeping my eyes on the reception, trying to look past the endless mass of bald heads of grey hair. After what felt like too long - but turned out it wasn't more than two minutes - an announcement was made in the speakers.

"Could Mr. Hart, Mr. Boyle and Mr. Canvas please approach the reception? I have a message to deliver you." Mr. _Canvas_? Mike's last name is Canvas? He looks more like a Pierce to me. Or even Burns.. but Can_vas_? Isn't that like a tent or something?

Not spending that much more time thinking about Mike's weird surname, the three of us made our way through the crowd, our eyes locked on the reception ahead of us. Once standing on the other side of the glass-window, the three of us expectantly waited for the Indian woman to speak. I felt like I waited to hear whether or not I'd won the million pound lottery.

"Well," she said, her lips breaking out in a smile. "It turns out there were quite a few interested in the opening."

All three of us cheered amongst each other, Mike and I even doing a brief high five in celebration of the news. What? Don't judge me. I was in the moment, okay?

"But a boy from Japan was the first to sign up for the spot," she revealed. Japan? That's different. I mean, Australia, okay - I can deal with that. But Ja_pan_? He probably doesn't even speak English, the poor sod. Oh well, that's one less guy I have to listen to while waiting, as I'm sure we'll have to do. Their entire system seemed to be based on waiting. Like it's a golden rule of theirs or something.

Grasping our frail attention, the receptionist opened her mouth to speak, "If you leave through the door to your right, you'll find an elevator that can bring you to the third floor. There, the receptionist should help you further with the cleansing process." The receptionist? Oh dear god, please don't tell me I have to go through _another_ receptionist. And what the hell is a cleansing process? Whatever it is, it better not take a lot of time. I want out of here, even if it is into the body of a turtle.

Before I had a chance to protest, the old Sir grabbed Mike and I by the arm and led us towards the exit. "Certainly. Thank you, Miss," he said before he left. That polite, old fop. Hasn't anyone told him it's my birth given right to complain?

Note to self: remind braniac turtle of my unquestionable right to be pessimistic once we're reborn.

Once we'd passed through the door I'd dreamed to exit ever since stepping into this godforsaken room, a steel door elevator appeared to us. That, and a trusty, old plant standing next to it. Ugh. This place and their flowers. Does it ever end?

Mike pressed the button, and together the three of us waited for the elevator to come. A soft ding that I never thought I'd miss interrupted the brief silence, and the shiny doors opened up to us. We quickly stepped inside, where Mike practically threw himself over the panel, afraid someone might push the button before he did. God. He was like a kid riding the bus with his poor mother. 'Oh please, Mom, can I push the button? Can I? Can I?' Hmpf.. All right, so maybe he was a kid with a really huge middle-aged belly - but a kid, nonetheless.

Just for the record: I don't like kids.

I know, I know. I have two kids of my own, or at least they used to be when they were younger. But it's not that I don't _like_ kids, it's just that I can't tolerate them. They drive me nuts. Too damn annoying. Just like Michael. He's even more annoying than any of my kids ever were when they were little. I pity his mom. She must've lost her sanity when raising him, that or her will to live.

"So, what's a cleansing process, anyway?" Mike asked, interrupting the peaceful silence in the elevator. Damn, I knew it wouldn't last.

"It's the part where they cleanse your essence of all its memories," Donald answered as a matter-of-factly. "To prepare it for its new body."

"Essence?" Mike asked, a confused look on his face. "What's an essence?" Ugh. Would the questions ever end? Not that I know what an essence is, but still. You don't have to know every little thing to be reborn as a turtle. I have a feeling this place takes care of our essence, even if we don't know what it is.

"That would be another word for your soul," Donald replied, putting his old, wrinkly hands in his beige pockets.

"How is it you know all these things, anyway?" I asked sceptically, turning to look at the old man standing next to me.

"Didn't you read the manual?" he wondered, staring at me through those old greyish blue eyes of his.

"Not all of it," I admitted. I would have proved them wrong on the sleep rule, had I finished that folder. I'd be snoring like a chainsaw halfway through the damn thing. It was that boring. Nothing but a load of crap.

"That's a real shame," he said, shaking his head to himself. "It had some really useful things inside it."

"I bet," I told him, my sarcasm once again released.

"But how come they have to take away all our memories?" Mike then asked, sounding a little annoyed over the fact.

Donald patiently turned to look at him, an explanation only waiting to happen. "You're not allowed to remember your previous life when stepping into the next," he said. "They even put that on the contract."

Mike smiled, embarrassment colouring his suddenly very flushed face. "Yeah, I uh.. I sorta didn't read the contract that careful."

Yeah well, _I_ did. And I sure as hell didn't see anything about not keeping your memories. Well okay, I _sort of_ read the contract. But you'd think they should put that part in big, red letters. Those sneaky bastards. It's like I called the frickin' Home-shopping channel to order myself a new life, only to miss the fine print that read: 'Memories of past life, not included.'

Typical.

"But what about our bodies?" Mike then asked. "What happens to them once we become turtles?"

"You have no bodies," Donald said, simply. "They're left on earth, remember?"

"Wait," I cut in, a little confused myself. "What do ye mean 'we have no bodies'? I'm standing right here. I can even _see_ myself in the mirror," I filled in, pointing the elevator-mirror to my left.

"Yes, well that is only a part of the illusion," Donald explained. "You only see what your mind _wants_ you to see. In truth, you left your bodies the instant you died. They might even be in the ground by now."

"I see _you_, don't I?" I was quick to point out, staring firmly at the old fop.

"Part of the illusion," he insisted. "You see me because I want you to see me. But in reality, there's really nothing here to look at," he said, gesturing to himself.

Illusion, huh? If you ask me, I think this guy's read one too many brochures. I sure as hell don't feel like an illusion. But I guess his theory would explain why we're not hungry anymore. Still, sounds a little too weird for my taste. I bet no one really knows why we come to this place looking like we do. What where they expecting, anyway? A guy with a white sheet pulled over his head?

Sooner than I'd expected, the elevator stopped and dinged, the doors sliding open to reveal another waiting room. However, this was much less crowded compared to the earlier ones. There were a total of maybe thirty people inside that room, each sitting calmly on a bench, reading a magazine and kicking back to the soft music in the room. Wait a minute? Isn't that Bob _Dylan_?

As we stepped out of the elevator and into the waiting room, I took a moment to listen to the lyrics of the faintly played song. And unless I've been completely driven off the loony edge by Mike, then I'm pretty sure it was 'Knockin' on Heaven's Door.' Heh. Who would've thought they'd play Dylan up here? I mean, I suppose the lyrics fit the situation, but still. Shit, it's Bob, you know? I mean, it's _Bob_. _BOB!_

Fine, what do you know of good music, anyway? You probably listen to ABBA or something. Ugh. I hate ABBA. See, that's a_nother_ bad thing that comes from Sweden. With both ABBA and that creepy Karl guy from the elevator on their resume, it has to be a fucked up country.

"Roy? Are you comin' or what?"

"Huh?" Mike looked at me expectantly, standing by the ticket machine. Damn, that's one more ticket to add to the pile of 'things I wish I didn't have to do.' By the time I reached up to them, Donald got us a ticket.

"216," he revealed, holding up the ticket for us to see.

"So, what's the number now?" Michael asked.

"182," I answered, staring at the number-board above the reception. Oh well. I guess that wasn't as bad as those other times. But still, 34 numbers felt like a lot of waiting.

"Might as well make ourselves comfortable, then," Donald decided, slowly approaching one of the many available benches. I sat down next to him, enjoying the music playing in the speakers, while Mike left to get himself one of those magazines.

Every few minutes, he interrupted the music to gossip about some news he'd read in his stupid magazine. 'Lifestyle of the rich and dead,' I think it was called. Yeah. How sick wasn't that? Not only do they have their own theatre, but they even have their own tabloids. I can't wait to get out of this place.

Finally, the sweet sound of "Number 216," came through the speakers. I don't think I've ever been as happy. Not even when my younger brother got grounded for breaking my locomotive toy, and that was a pretty good day. Justice at its best.

The three of us approached the counter together, where a curly red head was found on the opposite side of the window. "Gentlemen, how may I help you?" she asked, flashing that custom smile of hers. I felt like I'd seen that smile a hundred times before. Counting her fellow employees, I probably had.

"Yeah, uh, we're here to be cleansed," I said, leaning my arms on the counter.

"Certainly," she acknowledged, turning to type on her computer. "Your formal location, sir?" My formal _what_?

"We were sent from floor 74, room B," Donald jumped in with his ever so trustful knowledge. I felt like a first grader around him.

"Of course," she said, still typing on the keyboard. "I can see that on my computer now." Reaching beneath the counter, she revealed yet another sheet of paper, one she'd probably have us sign. "If you would please sign this, then you'll just have to exit through _that_ door." Told you.

Holding out, I waited for the other two to put their names on it, when I suddenly found myself whishing I'd gone first. Donald began yet another exciting adventure of his word for word reading. Once his old eyes were satisfied with what they'd learned, he grabbed the pen and wrote down his signature on the document. Sliding it to me, I accepted the pencil from him and lowered my stare to the paper.

Wow. That was a lot of words crammed into just one paper. How complicated can this memory erasing process be, anyway? Skimming through the text, just to make sure I didn't miss any fine print this time around, I then added my autograph to the list. When looking at the paper, I quickly detected the still empty dotted line beneath mine. That's when I remembered.

"What about that Japanese guy?" I asked, turning to look at the red head in front of me.

"Japanese guy?" she questioned, looking as if there was no one steering the boat.

"Yeah," I confirmed, my irritation quite obvious on my voice. "You know, that forth guy you simply _couldn't_ have us go without."

Turning back to her computer, she started typing frenetically. Christ. Can't they keep track of these things by themselves? What if I wouldn't have said anything? Would this guy then miss being born, or what? Would they've caught on to their mistake further down the road? I'd hate to be the one left behind. 'Sorry, Mr, Tokyo,' or whatever they're named over there. 'But we seem to have forgotten about you. Your brothers were just slipped into their embryos without you. We're terribly sorry for this unfortunate mistake. Here, take this ticket number while you sit down and wait for another opening to come up.'

What a sad place they've put us in.

"Oh," the receptionist then lit up by her computer. "Mr. Takahashi," she revealed. "Yes, well according to my computer, he still hasn't signed the document."

"No shit," I told her, holding up the document against the window for her to see the obvious.

Watching her pride shrink to the size of a frozen pea, she quickly leaned in to her microphone. "I'll just call for him on the speakers," she hastily explained before holding down the button. Watching her work, I placed the document on the counter again.

"Would Mr. Takahashi please approach the reception? I repeat: Mr. Takahashi is needed at the reception."

Looking for our forth brother, or at least future to be, all three of us turned to search for an Asian looking man. I have to admit I was quite disappointed when I didn't see him. I wanted to know what he was like, that nearly forgotten brother of mine.

"Misu?"

Looking down, I saw a small boy standing next to me, looking at the receptionist. His identity was hidden underneath a big head of straight, black hair. But he couldn't have been any more than 10. 11 at the most. Personally, I'd even go as far as guessing 9. He wasn't very old, that's for sure. Either that, or he was just very short. Then again, I heard somewhere Japanese people were, so maybe he wasn't as young as I thought.

"Mr. Takahashi?" she questioned, looking at the young boy.

"Hai," he said, nodding in what I can only guess to be confirmation. This was our guy. This was our brother. I'd never expected for him to be so young, and neither had Mike and Donald, judging by the shocked look on their faces. They were practically standing with their mouths open. Not that _I_ weren't, but still. It looked pretty damn funny.

Reaching beneath the window, she grabbed the document and slid it to him, along with the pencil in her left hand. "Sir, if you would please sign your name.."

He looked like she'd just given him an impossible math problem to solve, one I'm sure Donald would love to tackle.

"Um.." she hesitantly began, unsure of how to make him understand. "Your name," she said, pointing to the empty line at the bottom of the paper, holding out the pencil to him. Nodding in understanding, the boy took a hold of the pen and wrote down his signature.

"Arigatou, Mr. Takahashi," she nodded, accepting the pen and document as he handed them to her. Turning back to her computer, she typed in what I can only assume was our information. Then, while the machine began to print behind her, she turned back to us with a big smile. "Once I've given you your proof of identification, you simply leave through the door to your right."

"That's _it_?" I asked, a little peeved at her for dumping this foreign kid on us. Future brother or not, I didn't understand a word he said.

"That's it," she confirmed, passing the paper through the window. Donald reached forward and took it, when I wouldn't.

"But what about the kid?" I insisted. "He's Japanese for Christ's sake. We don't know any Japanese," I said, turning to look at my two friends, just to make sure. They nodded in agreement, even Donald, who'd had all the answers up until now.

"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you with that, sir," she said. "I read here on my computer that he seems to be some kind of exception, taken from the 59th floor only to fill the last opening, yes?"

"Yeah," I nodded briefly. "But that still doesn't mean we understand each other."

"I'm sorry, sir," she said, shaking her head. "But that's a side effect you'll have to adjust to when agreeing to a loophole like this." _Adjust_ to? What, is she crazy? The boy's from Japan, for crying out loud. And listen to this: we're not! Adjust to? They really need to do something about their system. It's got some major flaws. In fact, where's the floor where you get to complain? I want to fill out a complaint.

"Number 217."

_What!_ "You're just gonna leave us with him?" I cried, gluing myself to the window.

"Sir, if you don't step aside immediately, I will be forced to call for security," she warned me, her unwavering gaze locked on mine.

"And what about the kid?" I asked, holding her stare.

"Take him with you and leave through the door to your right, _sir_," she said slowly, speaking through gritted teeth.

"C'mon, Roy," Mike said, standing next to Donald. "Let's just leave. We'll handle the kid, okay? It's no big deal." No big deal? He was a 10-year-old foreigner, for flippin' sake! I'd like to see _him_ handle a 10-year-old foreigner.

"C'mon, kid," he said, taking the boy's hand and leading him towards the door. "Let's go.. err? Vamos."

"He's Japanese, Mike," Donald smartly pointed out, limping a few feet behind the two of them. "Not Spanish."

"Well, I don't know any Japanese," Michael defended himself as they walked. And what was a guy to do? Either I'd follow them out that door, or I could stand here and wait for her to go through with her threat and call security.

* * *

"And this… this one's from getting bit by a horse when I was twelve," Mike said, pointing to yet another scar of his. This one, placed on his hand, on one of his knuckles. The Japanese boy looked at the bald Australian with a confused expression on his young features. No wait, it was beyond confusion. It was more like the embodiment of a question mark. "Un caballo," Mike explained, using bad Spanish when trying to make the poor kid understand. 

"For the last time, Mike," I said, shaking my head in annoyance. "He's not Spanish! And neither are you, for that matter," I added in defeat.

"Let it go," Donald advised, putting one of his old hands on my left shoulder. I turned to look at him through tired eyes where I sat on the bench, waiting for the red light above the door to turn green. "Let him speak Spanish. It won't make a difference to the boy," Donald insisted, looking just as tired as I felt, or didn't feel. I wasn't physically tired, since I'd grown to learn that it wasn't possible. No, it's mental exhaustion. And I just want that damn light to turn green, so I can step inside and cleanse my fucking essence, or whatever they call it. Point is: I want out.

"So," I said, having reached the point where there was nothing else to talk about. "How does this cleansing thing work, anyway?"

"Well," Donald began, putting one giant leg over the other in a geeky sort of manner. "According to the brochure, you step into some sort of shower. But the water isn't like the water _we_ know."

I could see through the corner of my right eye how Mike perked up in interest, and the young Mr. Takahashi, as the bitchy receptionist had called him, quickly followed his stare to Donald as he spoke.

"What kind of water is it, then?" Mike asked, curiously. He was more like a kid than the kid himself. In fact, the boy seemed unusually calm for a child. He was very, very collected – almost like a grownup. None of my kids were that mature. In fact, they still aren't – and they're 30 and 26. Almost eerie, how composed he was, looked up in a small waiting room with three complete foreign strangers, one of them insisting he knew Spanish. Poor kid. He probably had to look after _us_ more than we did him.

"It absorbs your essence," Donald revealed, confusing us all. "It seeps into your skin and grabs a hold of all your thoughts, your every memory. Then, when all you've ever believed to exist doesn't, the light above the door turns green, and a new person steps inside."

Um.. Okay. That was… deep. I felt like listening to an old hippie, talking about the magical act of creating a child. Only, instead of giving the naked truth of the sex-act in the backseat of Dad's old Camero, he wrapped the whole thing in with big, colourful words and drunken philosophies. "You're _sure_ that's what the brochure read?" I asked, turning to look at the old Sir next to me.

"Well, not in those _exact_ words," he sheepishly admitted. "But the larger part of it is the same." Larger part of it? Heh. That's what I thought. This guy's spent way too much time in his own head. Might be healthy for him to be born into a family with three brothers to pester him in his solitude. Or _hatched_, to use the correct term. Turtles do lay eggs, don't they?

"Hey, Donald," I said, turning back to look at the living, breathing encyclopaedia. "Turtles. They lay eggs, right?"

"Yes," he nodded solemnly. "They're reptiles."

"That's what I thought," I told him, locking my eyes on nothing in particular. I knew they laid eggs. You know, for a Scottish construction worker, I'm not that stupid. I mean, okay, there might have been a few occasions here that I wouldn't exactly call 'my finer moments.' But still, for a guy who's just signed up to become a mutant turtle, I'm pretty smart.

"Hey," Mike spoke up. "The light went green." He looked at us with anticipation lighting up his features. "Are we just supposed to go in, or what?"

"It's green, isn't it?" Donald said.

Mike shrugged, grabbing the boy's small hand. "C'mon, kid, it's our turn," he said, the two of them rising from the bench and approaching the closed steel door. "We're transforming into turtle embryos. You know that, right?" he asked, looking down at the kid. "Las tortugas embryos."

Turtle embryos. What a life I picked, eh? Out of all the things to be born as, I had to sign up for a family of humanoid turtles. Man, I can't believe I'm about to lock myself inside an egg. That would probably go down the big, fat book of worst decisions made in the time of history. Well, that and the guy who signed ABBA a record deal. Those songs really stick to your brain. Damn Swedes.

-

**The End**


End file.
